The beauties are asleep; lone, tired,
Having, at length, succumbed to love,
In some late, moonlit hour, when sweet defense
Fell. The early part of the evening was tense.
Old loves were argued and renewed half-heartedly
As if they could live again, but always the past is mired,
Always the old waves look documented and strange,
Once looking fresh and new, the sea
A painting now, quiet, unsure of its range.
But here in the café at eight in the morning I remember something new
And confident because of that, the moments
Moving into each other. Or, isn’t that you?
That was you; gravity, yes, but something else is changing you.
This one always looks the same, and yet, by slow degrees
Love creeps on, but this one renews her look ingeniously,
Until, when she looks her best, I fall utterly.
But these are passing observations. Why can’t I say
What is literary and meaningful? I can spend an entire day
Irritated with others, needing to work on my poetry alone;
Solitude is especially attractive after the hunt,
When the environment was controlled by a river breeze,
The attractive types smiling in the early evening
Before the onslaught of quiet disappointment, more grief
Than the giddy ones were prepared to feel
When the facts of the littered park stood out in contrast
To the drunk’s swelling, failed, embittered, belief
That it really is okay, it is okay,
ah, intoxication! But now it’s another day,
And the swarms of highly unattractive and loud
Women are ordering breakfast, the café
Is ruined, old men with silly hats have so much to say.
But the beauties are asleep, except this waitress,
Dressed simply in black; she is awake,
Patient and beautiful, for everyone’s sake.